


Hell Fire and Holy Water

by Michaelisunderrated



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Michael (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:54:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21664789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelisunderrated/pseuds/Michaelisunderrated
Summary: "I hate you.""Hate you too."
Relationships: Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Hastur/Ligur (Good Omens), Hastur/Ligur/Michael (Good Omens), Hastur/Michael (Good Omens), Ligur/Michael (Good Omens)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 110





	1. The Copier Room Incident

Sandalphon flitted around the podium. He was stalling, something he was particularly bad at. The crowd was becoming difficult to keep at bay as the clock wore on. It murmured with curiosity.

Michael detested curiosity.

They detested it more so because they couldn't control their own curiosity. It threatened to bubble to the surface like the exorbitant amounts of champagne they consumed the night before. And the night before that. And- Well, who could blame them? This past month had exhausted Michael more than the entire rest of their existence.

6,000 years worth of work was down the drain, all because of a bratty little Antichrist. Ridiculous. Ligur was dead, and Crowley refused to die. The Principality also refused to die, but Michael didn't particularly care about that. No, Ligur was dead and Michael's best shot at revenge destroyed along with him.

They thought the champagne might help, but all it gave them was a god awful hangover. They knew they could sober up, but they kept forgetting. This was a new feeling for Michael, and they hated it. They hated Ligur for dying and Crowley for killing him and they  _ hated _ Sandalphon's puns. Michael knew he was doing his best to stall for time, but still.

This hatred was far, far too human for their liking, but then, every Angel had their faults. Aziraphale had his gluttony, and Gabriel had his pride, and Michael had... feelings.

Michael winced.

Ah yes, as far as Angelic faults went, Sandalphon was fucking  _ annoying _ .

Michael cleared their throat. "I'm going to go look for him."

"I'm sure he's just..." Sandalphon eyed the crowd.

"Late?" Sandalphon grimaced. "Gabriel is never late."

God, Michael needed a drink. Gabriel was probably holed up in his office. He'd taken the whole 'Not-Pocalypse' fiasco about as well as Michael had, and it showed. Michael had never seen anyone finish paperwork so efficiently. They suspected that Gabriel was nabbing paperwork off their desk as well, but Michael had no way to prove it.

They worried about him.

It was quicker to teleport, but Michael wanted to fly. It felt like ages since they'd last been able to. Times like this were rare in Heaven. The Angels were all gathered in the lecture hall, and Michael could finally be alone. Breathe a bit. No one but God was watching now, though Michael doubted... Michael entertained the notion that She was otherwise occupied at the moment.  _ And the last 6,000 years worth of moments as well. _

They stretched their wings. Their wings... were different from other Angels. They were nicer, for a start. Michael had Ligur to thank for that. Wing grooming was a customary part of Demonic relations in a way which would appall most Angels. Michael didn't know when wing grooming had become a taboo in Heaven, but the fact remained that it was. Even stretching one’s wings in public was considered an act of public indecency. And in Heaven, everywhere was public. After all, Angels had nothing to hide.

Michael's wings weren't just appendages to them, they were battle scars. They marked the final battle of the First War, when Michael Felled Satan. He'd grabbed them in those final moments, threatening to bring Michael tumbling with him. Though he hadn't succeeded, Satan brought half a wing back with him to hell. The other one and a half lay crooked, balding, and spotted with grey.

Michael's wings were a reminder of the time they nearly Fell. More importantly to Michael, these scars were a testament to the time God saved them from Falling. Many Angels silently wondered whether they should have Fell with the others. (Humans called it survivor’s guilt). Michael didn't have to.

It was why, even now, despite their 6,000 years of work amounting to nothing. Despite struggling to hold Heaven together. Despite the lingering threat of a second Rebellion, Michael did not doubt Her. They couldn't afford to. (They knew what Falling felt like).

Angels respected Purity. The gracelessnesss of flying, the ugliness of scars, they could never take pride in a thing like that. Michael hadn't. At least, not until Ligur had showed them how to.

_ Ligur had called them beautiful. _

But Ligur was gone, and the only other being they'd ever allowed to see their wings was Gabriel. Gabriel, who was late was late for the first time in 6,000 years. It was so far out of character for him that Michael could only think the worst.

They landed outside Gabriel's office. Which is to say, they landed inside Gabriel's office.

See, Heaven only had 3 doors. There was the Elevator, the Chamber they'd used for Aziraphale's botched execution, and the Copier Room. The latter only had a door because someone decided to install a microwave and now the whole room smelled like fish sticks.

The absence of door in Heaven was quintessentially Angelic in the same way that demotivational posters were quintessentially Demonic. Angels, after all, had nothing to hide.

Gabriel wasn't there.

Michael checked their logs. According to them, Gabriel was still in Heaven, but...Michael double checked the file... he'd made seventeen trips to Earth and five trips to Hell in the past month alone.

_ Odd _ , Michael thought as they deleted the file. After more thought, they deleted the backup file as well. They'd ask Gabriel about it later.

Michael hadn't seen him on the way, which meant he must be behind one of the three doors. He wasn't in the Elevator, they passed it already. Michael doubted Gabriel was in the Chamber, that would sting his pride far too much. That only left the copier room.

They checked their watch. Sandalphon would only be able to stave off the crowd for so long. Better to teleport there.

Michael instantly regretted that decision.

Gabriel was in a... compromised position, one which made Michael want to bleach their eyeballs. Far more important, was who he was in that compromised position with.

Beelzebub. Prince of Hell.

And judging from the marks on Gabriel, this wasn't the first time. They were both clothed, thankfully, but Michael wasn't stupid. They knew sex when they saw it.

Michael cleared their throat and shot Gabriel a pointed look. "You're late.”

…

Michael miracled up a bottle of champagne.

"Gabriel..." It shouldn't surprise them as much as it did. Not that Gabriel was fucking a demon of course, but that he was going about it like an idiot. "The copier room? Really?"

They popped off the cork. Gabriel gave them a Look™, which Michael ignored. If he didn't like their drinking habits, he should have thought about that before he decided to be a dumbass. They gestured to the door with the large end of the bottle.

"Take a shower, Gabriel."

"But my speech-"

"Is on how  _ not _ to hook up with a demon."

The heaven-wide meeting was actually about how heaven planned to operate in the aftermath of the Apocawasn't. Gabriel's speech specifically was about interrelations between Heaven and Hell. He was supposed to address the problem before it arose, and make it clear that that sort of thing was strictly forbidden.

Michael did not appreciate the irony.

"You smell like Demon. Take a shower." They took a swig from the bottle and nodded at Beelzebub. "You. Summon up a fish or something."

"Don't order me-"

"Preferably something rotten. Roadkill maybe?"

Beelzebub's fingers twitched. "No."

Gabriel bit the inside of his cheek as he watched the ensuing staring contest. Beelzebub's glare was the definition of 'If Looks Could Kill'. Michael's screamed Karen. Gabriel had no idea which was more dangerous, and he didn't want to stick around to find out.

"I'm gonna," he cleared his throat, "I'm gonna just head."

Neither moved.

"Right." He pecked Beelzebub on the cheek and rushed out.

Beelzebub turned bright red.

"Fine," they growled. They summoned the flattened corpse of a squirrel and chucked it at Michael's head.

Michael caught it.

"It's not rotting," they studied the blackened tire marks on the squirrel's spine. "But it will do."

Michael crossed the room to the microwave. It was their favorite thing in all Heaven (other than alcohol). They were actually the one who installed it. Privacy was non-existent in heaven, and Michael needed someplace to be alone from time to time. So, they microwaved some fish sticks. The smell was so insufferable that the council of Archangels voted unanimously to close off the area with a door. It was some of Michael's finest work to date. No one but Michael was willing to enter. And Gabriel, apparently.

They stuck the roadkill in the microwave and set it to 90 seconds. 90 seconds, not 1:30. It was one less button to push and Michael thrived on efficiency.

"Remind me why exactly you're microwaving a squirrel?"

"To get the smell out."

"Oh,  _ Obviously _ ." Beelzebub drawled.

Michael rolled their eyes at the sarcasm. They watched the little green numbers tick down, taking another swig from their bottle. 67 seconds. "The room smells like sex. This will overpower that."

Beelzebub studied them. "You're fucking weird, you know that?"

"Thanks."

"That wazzn't a compliment."

"I know."

Beelzebub grinned at that. They didn't realize that Michael could see their smile through the distorted reflection on the microwave door. If they had, they would have tried to hide it. Beelzebub didn't like to show that sort of thing. It made them appear less threatening, which was unacceptable. According to Ligur, Beelzebub hadn't smiled in over 6,000 years. Michael wondered whether that was actually the case.

It was strange to see them like this. Michael had met with them a few times over the millenia. They always looked like they had just rolled out of bed, but it was usually intentional. Now they just looked like they'd been thoroughly... kissed. Their hair was sticking out, their suit jacket wrinkled, and their red sash was nowhere to be seen. Beelzebub hadn't bothered to miracle away the red and purple bruises which littered their arms and neck. Michael didn't know if Beelzebub hadn't noticed them yet, or if they were showing them off. They didn't ask. That seemed like more information than Michael could handle.

Beelzebub studied them. "Why are you helping me? Izzn't that like, illegal?"

"The only laws she ever wrote were the Ten Commandments. The rest in conjecture." A fly buzzed near Michael's ear. If they didn't think it might offend Beelzebub, they would have swatted at it.

"I don't know, you got pretty piszzy about the Traitors."

"I got  _ pissy _ because Crowley killed Ligur."

"Oh..." Ligur had always smelled faintly of champagne. Alcohol was common in Hell, so they never thought to question it. Though champagne seemed like odd choice for a demon... "OH."

The microwave beeped, and Michael pulled out the squirrel. It vanished with a wave of their hand, but the smell lingered. It had worked all right.

"And I'm not helping you. I'm helping my brother. If you hurt him-"

"I won't."

Michael's bottle was halfway empty, and they hadn't even been there five minutes. Either Michael's champagne of choice had a ridiculously small proof or Michael was an alcoholic. Beelzebub couldn't tell which. Michael went for the bottle again, and Beelzebub was struck with the sudden urge to wrestle it away from them. That couldn't be healthy.

They blinked away the thought.

Michael gestured to the door. "I'm sure you know the way out?"

Right. Beelzebub was a demon. In heaven. That was very much  _ not _ a good thing for them, and they needed to leave as soon as possible for their own safety. Why had they even let Gabriel convince them to come? If anyone other than Michael had found them, they'd be a puddle of holy water by now. They wondered if Gabriel would cry. Probably not, he was always so damn cheerful.

...That was a lie.

Gabriel would cry, just not until he was alone. They knew Gabriel too well now to think otherwise. Angels and their nonexistent coping mechanisms. No wonder Michael drank so much.

They headed towards the Elevator. They didn't care. They were a demon, after all. And if they left one of their flies buzzing near Michael's ear, then who would notice?


	2. The Star Maker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! I know it's been a month. I promise I've been writing. The only problem is I write completely out of order. So while I have several scenes finished, it took me a while to get to this one. Next update should be quicker

**What happened was this:** Gabriel never arrived at the lecture hall. Instead, Michael took his place at the podium. But his speech wasn't written and his notes were missing. Michael was forced to make it up as they went.

 **What happened was this:** There was a reason She chose Gabriel as Her Messenger. He knew how to placate a crowd, how to get people to do exactly what he wanted. He had a way of convincing people it was their idea in the first place.

 **What happened was this:** By the time Michael arrived to the lecture hall, their bottle of Champagne was empty. Two bottles were empty by the time Sandalphon dragged them off the stage.

…

Michael woke up with a headache.

“Please tell me you weren’t about to wake me up with a bucket of water.”

Gabriel miraculed away the bucket.

They groaned and sat up on the white couch. That was odd. Michael was certain there hadn’t been a couch here yesterday. “Gabriel...”

“The Council wants to speak with you."

Shit. The Council of Archangels only met when circumstances called for drastic measures. The last time they met was to decide on the fate of Aziraphale. (They also met to install the door to the Copier Room. You know, important things.) If the Council was meeting, it couldn't be good.

Michael had a feeling they knew what it was about.

"Did something happen?" _Did they find out about you and Beelzebub. Did I miss something, not cover your tracks. Are you in trouble. Is it my fault..._ "With your friend?"

Gabriel shook his head. He sat down beside Michael, propping his arm up on the side of the couch. He played with the hem of his jacket.

"Gabriel, what happened?"

Gabriel set his mouth in a line, his expression suddenly serious. He was still toying with his coat. Michael tried to search for the meaning in the gesture, but his eyes refused to meet theirs.

Behind them, Uriel cleared her throat. Michael spun around. Their senses filled with dread at the inescapable interaction.

It wasn't that they didn't like Uriel, it was just that Uriel was well, Uriel. She wasn't exactly tactful. She had a tendency to make the exact observation you were hoping she wouldn't. Like when she called Crowley Aziraphale's 'Boyfriend with the dark glasses'. Or when she told Lucifer off for being 'a little too angsty' and he started a Rebellion.

Uriel circled around the couch into Michael's line of sight. "We need to talk.."

Michael squinted. They couldn't take her seriously with her spats. "About what exactly?"

"Let me guess. You blacked out again?" Uriel laughed dryly.

Blacked out? Why in heaven would they have blacked out? They rubbed their eyes and tried to recall the previous evening.

"What was it this time? Wine? Chardiné?"

They tried again. Still, nothing. "I..." The couch was new, and their hair was down for some reason. Silver came away on their fingertips when they tried to rub their eyes again. Had they been crying? "Champagne."

Uriel actually had the audacity to roll her eyes at that.

She miracled up 3 chairs opposite them and sat in the middle one. Moments later, Sandalphon appeared and took the chair to the right of her. Jophiel rolled in as well, his hoverboard as annoying as ever. He did not take a seat at all, just plopped down on his hoverboard and pulled out his phone.

They were waiting on someone, that much was obvious, but Michael couldn't figure out who. Surely the Metatron wasn't coming? He rarely made time for anyone. The only one whose presence was more sparse than his was Her. It was probably one of the secretarial angels, late with the necessary files.

Sandalphon started whistling. Uriel tapped him on his shoulder to get him to stop, but he didn't take the hint. It was a song from the Sound of Music, and much to Michael's chagrin, Gabriel started humming along.

"Sorry I'm late," Raphael set down the ground. Her face was sprinkled with stardust and her wings were the gaping emptiness of space. Uriel grimaced when she saw his wings. Sandalphon looked absolutely scandalized. Jophiel didn't bother to look up from his phone.

She folded her wings in and rushed at Michael. They had no time to react before they were wrapped in a bone crushing hug.

"You're, uh," Michael grunted, "kinda crushing me?"

"Right!" Raphael let go. "Sorry I just- it's been too long you know?"

Michael laughed. "Missed you too, sis."

"Oh, Micah," She pressed her thumb to their forehead. Their headache disappeared.

Raphael tousled Michael's hair and then set out with grim determination. Every one of Raphael’s siblings would receive a hug, whether they wanted one or not. Uriel put up a good fight, but she didn't stand a chance. Michael grinned at her squashed face as she sighed her resignation into Raphael's shoulder.

... Wait a minute.

Though Raphael was called to every meeting of the Council, she rarely showed. She loved her precious stars far too much. She only returned to heaven when she felt she absolutely had to. Sodom and Gomorrah for example, or that whole 'Jesus' fiasco. Raphael returned when it was her services as a Healer, not as a Star Maker, that were required. She hadn't cared much about the Apocawasn't. A sibling in need of emotional support with a notable drinking problem on the other hand... This wasn't a Council meeting at all, was it?

It was an intervention.

...

Upon this shattering realization Michael decided “Fuck this” and then, promptly, left.

Raphael, ever the caring sister, followed them.

"I thought I might find you here," Raphael slid into the space beside them, propping up her elbows on the balcony railing.

A shimmering forcefield shocked her before she could lean too far. She stared at her outstretched fingers, eyes wide. That hadn't been there the last time she was in heaven. As it was, it was the only balcony left. The rest had been walled off after the Joan incident on Gabriel's behest.

Michael liked this place. It wasn't especially private, but it had the best view of the humans. Most angels avoided it for that reason.

Michael wrapped their jacket tighter around their shoulders, "They look like little ants."

Humans scurried below., reading and planting, building things up and tearing them down. Painting. One woman had painted the same picture of a door twenty-six times. Her name was Margaret, a well known fact which was of little importance.

"Of course you would think that," Raphael sighed. "You're so good at distancing yourself from them but I... I can't. I felt their pain Micah, I heard every prayer. It nearly drove me insane."

"So that's why you left?"

Raphael shrugged. "It's quieter up in the stars."

On the streets below, a child tripped and fell. Raphael's fingers twitched as a new freckle etched itself into her skin. Michael covered her hand with theirs.

"The point is, there's no shame in taking a break when it all becomes too much." Raphael snapped, and the boy stopped crying. She turned to face them. "Come back to the stars with me?"

Michael blinked in surprise. That was no small offer coming from Raphael. She'd been alone up in the stars for almost 6,000 years now, returning only for short visits to her family. Offering to share in that aloneness was huge. "Raphael..."

What could they say? Heaven was their home. As much as the place drove them half insane with requests and directives and forms and all the bloody  _ paperwork _ , it was all they knew. Besides, Gabriel was here. Michael couldn’t claim to be close to anyone else. Hastur perhaps, but it wasn’t wise to reach out to him now.

Michael pressed their fingertips to the force field, a quiet shock running through their corporation. It was more annoying than painful, like when you stub your toe on the end of a coffee table. That only made Michael hate it all the more. No matter how hard they pressed the field held strong, enveloped by a dull electrical hum.

A human city thrummed with noises below, a hideous cacophony sealed from Michael’s ears. They found themselves wishing for it despite themself. It was too quiet here.

Silently, Michael longed for it, the dirt and the rabble, ugly laughter and skinned knees. They wanted doors, doors you could close without having to microwave a run over squirrel or a rotted fish. They wanted color too, any color but white. Or gold. That didn’t count as color and the council  _ knew  _ it, but they never listened to Michael’s ideas. They only listened to Gabriel, when he announced the exact same idea right after them and  _ suddenly  _ the council was all ears. There were days which Michael though this wasn’t heaven at all. It was an office building, and Gabriel was top dog. Michael loved Gabriel to death, but he was kind of an asshole sometimes. Okay, all the time.

Normally, Michael ignored these feelings. They shoved them down into an unmarked box labeled “later”, knowing full well that time was infinite and there would always be a later ‘later’.

Michael didn’t exactly have good coping mechanisms.

They swallowed. “It’s quiet, isn’t it. Up in the stars?”

Raphael squeezed their hand, brushed her thumb over their palm in a comforting gesture. There was stardust on her sleeve. “It is, yes.”

“Sounds lonely.”

“You wouldn’t be alone.”

No. They wouldn’t. The stars were lovely. They were colorful and bright, a symphony in the sky, but so far apart that when you went near one you couldn’t hear the music of the others.

“Just a few hundred years,” Raphael urged. “Just until you clear your head.”

Michael pulled their hand away. Raphael looked stricken.

“But you  _ hate  _ it here.” Raphael pleaded with them. “It hurts you to stay, I can  _ feel  _ it.”

Michael looked over the human city. They saw the french hills where they met Joan. The ruins of the Library of Alexandria where Hastur and Ligur held their wedding. The Benedictine church in Champagne, France where they’d shared their bottle with the two of them. Michael looked further. That cursed american theater where they took Gabriel to see the Sound of Music (and proceeded to regret it for the next 50 years). A Buddhist temple in China. A vineyard in Greece. A marijuana field in Mexico (Ligur thought that was funny. Michael… was very high and so thought  _ everything  _ was funny). They looked fondly upon the ruins of an Aztec temple, where Hastur had first tried to kill them. He did that a lot in the earlier days of their arrangement.

Michael’s voice broke. “It does.”

Raphael peered over their shoulder, at the earth below. Her mouth formed a silent ‘oh’. “... I’ll vouch for you.”

Michael looked up, blinking at Raphael in confusion.

“If you want to go to Earth instead,” Raphael clarified. “I’ll vouch for you.”

Michael smiled at them sadly. It was a sweet gesture, but the council would never approve it. Heaven was on edge. They didn’t want to send anyone to Earth, least of all an archangel, lest they get another rouge angel on their hands. It made for a bad image of heaven, and more importantly, heaping mounds of paperwork.

“I’m serious,” Raphael elbowed them playfully. “How hard can it be to convince them?”

Michael laughed dishearteningly, still not fully convinced. They took Raphael’s hand anyway. The two siblings headed back to the Council. With purpose this time.


	3. Curiosity killed the cat (but satisfaction brought it back)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gabriel is an asshole, Michael takes a risk, and Jophiel almost gets electrocuted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, but I hope the length of the chapter makes up for it.

The council was exactly the same as they left it. Jophiel was messing around on a gameboy, Sandalphon was sweating bullets, and Uriel maintained a constant expression of vague disinterest. Gabriel beamed at them, gesturing to the seat beside him.

Uriel elbowed Jophiel, who tucked his gameboy into a small pocket dimension.

Sandalphon pulled a scroll into existence. He cleared his throat. “I know that recent events have been hard on us all,” he read.

“That being said, this needs to stop,” Uriel continued in a monotone voice.

Jophiel’s eyes glazed over. He blinked, dragging his gaze from whatever point in the distance he’d fixated on. “Right, yeah. You’re kind of a mess right now dude.” He glanced at the purple writing smudged over his arm. “Drinking. Yeah. Don’t do that anymore.”

“ _ That’s not what we prepared _ ,” Uriel hissed under her breath.

Jophiel shrugged.

Beside Michael, Gabriel’s leg bobbed up and down. He opened his mouth to speak, then clamped it shut again. Uriel rolled her eyes.

“We’re confiscating your miracle privileges.”

Michael’s hands clenched and unclenched, but they managed to stay calm.

Uriel folded her hands neatly in her lap. “We don’t want you summoning up booze any time you feel like it.”

_ Champagne _ , Michael wanted to correct her. _ I have class _ .

They smiled instead, tight lipped. “Okay.”

All things considered, it could be worse. The Council of Archangels was rarely this kind. Then again, Raphael rarely showed up to Council meetings anymore. She made all the difference. Even Uriel glowed in her presence, though that might have been the stardust. It was like glitter, beautiful but impossible to clean up.

Gabriel cleared his throat, suddenly the picture of perfection. He nodded at Raphael, not so subtly.

Raphael nodded back “Michael and I were talking.”

Gabriel nodded. “Oh?”

Okay these two definitely planned this.

Raphael stared Gabriel down and stuck out her chin. “Michael wants to go to Earth.”

Gabriel closed his eyes. His nails dug into his palm, golden blood dripping from his palm. He took a deep breath, laid his hand flat on the arm of the couch, and opened his eyes.

“Council meeting adjourned.”

Uriel’s jaw fell open.

She recomposed herself, pulling a white tablet into existence.

_ “Council Meetings, underneath Archangel Proprietary, section 32A,” _ Uriel read aloud.  _ “No lone Archangel may make a decision during Council meeting without first consulting at least three other Archangels, including but not limited to the following: meeting Place, meeting Attire, Calling or Closing a meeting, Attendance of-” _

Gabriel’s eyes blazed white with the fires of heaven and Uriel shrunk under its light. She stepped backward, clutching her tablet to her chest as golden marks climbed like vines across his skin. “I  _ said  _ meeting adjourned,” he warned.

Uriel whimpered.

Sandalphon, ever the overachiever was already gone. Uriel followed, head high, unwilling to admit her defeat. That left Raphael and Michael to stare at Gabriel and wonder what the  _ hell  _ had just happened.

Gabriel miracled away the chairs, humming along to the Sound of Music. Raphael grabbed him by the shoulder as he turned to leave.

“ _ What _ ,” she demanded, “was _ that _ .”

Gabriel tried to pry her hand gently off his arm, but she didn’t budge. He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly. “You went off script.”

“So did Jophiel!” It wasn’t exactly a fair comparison. Jophiel was always off script.

“ _ Jophiel _ didn’t suggest sending Michael to Earth.” Gabriel turned in the opposite direction, shrugging Raphael’s hand off of him as he walked.

Raphael followed him. “So you decided to dispel the council? That’s against the rules and you know it Gabriel. Just because you’ve got some  _ thing  _ against earth doesn’t mean you can let your emotions take control of you like that!”

“It was an entirely rational decision!”

“Oh really?” Raphael pressed. “Really? Rational how.”

Gabriel sped up, footfalls thudding in his ears. “Michael cannot go to Earth. It’s not safe for them and you know it. I won’t let them get hurt.”

“Michael is an archangel! What in the Eden could possibly harm them?”

_ “Michael isn’t safe there,” _ Gabriel hissed.

“ _ Michael _ can handle themself.”

Raphael ran after him as Gabriel desperately tried to lose her. Their fighting increased, both in speed and volume. Michael didn’t doubt that all of heaven could hear it.

They sighed, stared out into the white expanse of space they so loathed. “ _ Michael _ is right here.”

Predictably, neither heard them.

Michael tried to miracle a bottle of champagne, but only a white pillar of smoke dissipated in their hands. They laughed hollowly, collapsing onto the white couch. The sound of a yoshi’s high pitched voice made them turn their head. “Jophiel? You’re still here?”

Jophiel tapped stubbornly at the miniature keyboard, game music leaking out of their headphones. “Yeah dude. Been here.” He pumped up his fist as he finished the level. Yoshi did a celebratory dance on the screen.

“So did you hear-”

“Everything.” He tilted the screen towards Michael. “Want to play? There’s a multiplayer setting.”

Michael studied the brown mushroom warriors. “Yeah… no.”

“Your loss.” He hit a prize box. “You know if you really want to go to Earth, you can just, y’know,  _ leave _ .”

“I can’t just  _ leave _ .” Michael leaned over the arm of the couch to see him better.

Jophiel let out an audible groan as his character fell into a comical lake of spikes and lava. GAME OVER flashed across the screen. “Why not? I do it all the time.”

“You-what?” Michael stared at him. “Your logs don’t show any trips to Earth.”

Jophiel started a new game. The cactuses had faces for some reason. “Because I don’t tell anyone I’m going. Duh.”

It occurred to Michael then that they had never questioned the existence of the gameboy. Or the hoverboard. Or that abomination of a My Little Pony hoodie which Jophiel hadn’t taken off for 10 years.

He switched the Gameboy into his left hand, still tapping furiously with his thumb, and pointed with his right. “Elevator’s that way.”

…

What the hell am I doing.

Michael shuffled into the motel, hair wet from the rain. They tugged a Hello Kitty knapsack behind them. It was a gag gift from Hastur. At least, Michael hoped it was a gag gift. Inside it was 53 Sumerian coins, 5000 won, and a sizeable stack of American 20’s, their sum earnings from various bets with Ligur. Both of them could miracle up money anytime they liked, so losing a bet wasn’t exactly a huge sacrifice. Holding it over the other’s head for the next few centuries was the real reward. Luckily, Michael had never gotten around to dissipating their earnings. It was an odd collection, but it would do for now. Michael couldn’t exactly make money appear out of thin air anymore.

Michael set the bag on the counter. A woman looked up from her phone. She was smoking a cigarette, using the ‘No Smoking’ sign as a coaster for her coffee. There were three empty Red Bulls by her feet which were propped up by the computer.

Ah, America.

Michael really didn’t want to run into the two traitors. They thought traveling halfway across the world should do the trick.

They dug through their bag, pulling out the stack of 20’s. Michael pushed it towards the woman. “How long will this get me?”

The woman counted out the bills, blowing a ring of smoke. It dissipated in Michael’s face. “How long will you be in town for?”

Bethel was a small town. Its most exciting feature was the new McDonalds which had been put in three years ago and had yet to lose its novelty. Suffice it to say, they didn’t get a lot of visitors.

“Not sure,” Michael shrugged. “Until my folks come looking for me I suppose.”

God, Gabriel was going to be pissed .

The woman put out her cigarette on the laminated ‘No Smoking’ sign. The room smelled of burning plastic. She pulled a key out of a drawer. Michael was surprised to see it was a metal key and not one of those electronic cards. She handed it to Michael along with a five, a nickel and two pennies. “Room 8. You can stay for 13 days before you have to make another payment.”

Michael took the key and headed out the door. Standing under the motel awning, they counted 8 doors down. They walked past an old phone box and a dirty pool filled with mosquito eggs.

The room itself was small, just a bed, a coffee table, and what could possibly constitute as a dresser. There was a bathroom as well, but as Michael didn’t exactly have the regular human facilities, they didn’t bother checking it out. Of course, there were a few odd amenities. Those amenities included complimentary stains, a half eaten bag of Takis, and a bottle of Tequila which had rolled underneath the bed. Surprisingly, it hadn’t been opened.

They thought about opening the bottle of tequila, but ultimately decided against it. Who knew where it had been? They weren’t that desperate.

...yet.

Michael shoved the bottle back under the bed for safe keeping. Tequila wasn’t exactly their drink of choice, but they would definitely regret it if they tossed it down the drain.

They fell backwards onto the bed, kicking off their shoes. The bed was a far cry from comfortable, but they found they didn’t care. What the hell were they thinking? This was going to backfire on them spectacularly. The consequences of their actions should have loomed, but sheer spite overpowered it. They laughed.

“ Fuck it,” Michael laughed. “Just fuck it.”

It was vulgar and crude, but to Michael it was the most hilarious thing in the world. They found everything funny in that moment, from the suspicious stains on the ceiling to the piss stained carpet. Still laughing, they pulled their hair from its regal updo, let it fall messily over their shoulders. They thought about shaving it off completely. Maybe they’d get a piercing too before Heaven could realize they were missing. They’d have to go back eventually, but for now Michael was content to lie back on the filthy covers and laugh .

…

Jophiel was curious.

That had always been her most defining characteristic. And it was her now, though it hadn’t been yesterday. Perhaps tomorrow she would be ze or they or forego gender entirely. Jophiel wore gender the way people wore clothing, an expression of identity, easily pulled away and replaced come each morning. Gender was simply too fascinating for Jophiel to settle on any one. She treated gender the way she treated her beloved gameboy, the stone she’d pulled from the rubble of the Library of Alexandria, and an empty mason jar. No matter how innocuous, how useless, Jophiel loved it all.

Curiosity was the gift Jophiel had bestowed upon Adam and Eve in the Garden. All the archangels, with the exception of Sandalphon of course, had given the humans some part of themself at Her request. Uriel gave them intelligence. Raphael gave them compassion. Gabriel gave them truth. Michael gave them laughter. Then God binded those gifts together, breathed them into the clay, and gave the humans a Soul.

Curiosity had gotten Jophiel into several binds in the past, but Jophiel hadn’t learned from any of them. It was as the humans said: Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back. Though humans tended to forget the last portion of that adage.

So, when Gabriel tapped into some of Her divine energy (which was totally unauthorized, and Jophiel was, admittedly, bitter) a thought drifted into Jophiel’s head. What if she could capture that energy? It always left behind a residue, electricity zipping through the air. Surely if she focused she could concentrate that energy into one location. After that, she only had to figure out how to use it. It was ingenious, if she did say so herself.

Jophiel reached into her pocket dimension, returning with an old mason jar. Eyes closed, she pulled on the matter, though it wasn’t quite matter at all. The humans had a very interesting name for it: anti-matter. Humans had no idea how powerful that stuff really was. It was divine energy, a fragment of Her godly essence. Human scientists didn’t properly respect it. Gabriel didn’t either or he wouldn’t have called upon it at all. It was a gross misuse of his powers, an abuse of them. Still, what was done was done and Jophiel would be damned before she let it go to waste.

In Jophiel’s pocket dimension, her wings flapped. They added weight to her efforts, a powerful force. Jophiel had studied magnets not long after humans discovered them. She modeled her efforts into the shape of a magnetic field, thrumming with the energy of an archangel.

All at once, the anti-matter flew towards her. She capped the mason jar immediately, stumbling backwards from the force. Her hair stuck up on her head, frizzy. Jophiel was just glad something hadn’t blown up. Jophiel peered into the mason jar, studying her handiwork.

The jar was empty.

Oh well , Jophiel sighed. At least I tried . She straightened out her hair with a miracle and revved up her hoverboard. She had places to be, quotas to meet. Perhaps if she finished all her paperwork she could sneak down to earth for a few hours and spy on the furries. They led very interesting lives. Reaching into her breast pocket, she pulled out her game boy. The light flashed three times when she turned it on, from red to green…

To gold.


	4. Fly Trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Beelzebub is bored, Michael is reckless, and Hastur is an idiot

Beelzebub yawned and stretched. Sometime during the night they’d intertwined themself with Gabriel. Were it anyone else, Beelzebub would have discorporated them for their impotence. Gabriel was the only exception. The rewards of annoying the archangel far outweighed the indignities of ‘cuddling’. It was particularly rewarding because of how much Gabriel despised it.

Upon realizing Beelzebub was awake, Gabriel disentangled himself from the demon. “I wish you would stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” Beelzebub blinked innocently up at him from beneath their lashes. Gabriel slid out from underneath the covers and pulled on his trousers. Beelzebub wrapped their arms around his waist. They slid their hands down his bare chest, tugging at his ear with their teeth. Their voice was low. “Tempting you?”

Gabriel nudged them away. “I have work.”

He returned his attention to his zipper. Snatching his shirt up from the ground, Gabriel pulled it over his head.

“Work,” Beelzebub purred. “Like that memorandum we were zzupozed to zzzurvey last night?”

Gabriel slid into his shoes. “Actual work I’m afraid. Jophiel called a council meeting.”

“About?”

“Not sure.” Gabriel plucked his blazer from where it was strewn haphazardly on a chair.

“Don’t know or won’t tell me?”

Gabriel used a quick miracle to fix his disheveled hair. He wrapped his scarf around his neck, effectively hiding every trace of the night before. “It’s classified information. I couldn’t tell you if I wanted to.”

He paused at the door frame, awkward. “Well uh, bye then.”

Beelzebub huffed, shoeing him away with a flick of their wrist. “Bye.”

Gabriel walked out, hitting his head in the process. He ducked beneath the door frame and continued. Beelzebub smirked.

_ Bastard _ .

Beelzebub was bored. For the first time in millennia Satan had managed to remember that he actually had a job. Now that they weren’t stuck doing all of Satan’s paperwork, finishing their own was child’s play. It was nice at first, a good bit of sloth never hurt a demon, but now Beelzebub found that they were running out of things to do. Gabriel was entertaining enough, but he was too  _ Gabriel _ . Don’t get them wrong, the sex was great, but any interaction beyond that was… strained. They were growing restless, and without a certain archangel to mess with, reckless.

They needed someone new to play with.

Beelzebub miracled their clothes back on. They checked their reflection, ran their fingers through their greasy hair. Perfectly disheveled. That settled, they reached for their phone.

Michael’s contact wasn’t hard to find. They’d transferred it from Gabriel’s phone weeks ago. They’d transferred all his contacts actually, in case they felt the need to mess with Gabriel.

Typing quickly, they hit send.

**Your brother’s a dick.**

Three dots appeared on Beelzebub’s screen, disappearing just as quickly.

_ Well hello to you too, Beelzebub. _

Beelzebub raised their brows. They hadn’t expected Michael to recognize them so quickly.

**How’d you know it was me?**

_ Stole your info from Gabriel after _

_ the Copier Room Incident. Thought _

_ it might come in handy in case he _

_ decided to go missing again _

Gabriel needed to stop leaving his phone out in the open.

_ So why are you texting me out of the blue? _

_ Did something happen to Gabriel? _

**Nah, I just wanted to say thank you**

**for the other day**

_ Somehow I doubt that. _

_ Try again _

Oh this was  _ fun _ .

Beelzebub traipsed to the kitchen. They were quite proud of the infernal miracles woven into the walls. The ceiling always appeared higher than it actually was, causing tall bastards (namely, Gabriel) to hit their head every time. It was a lovely little place. Lovely by demonic standards that was, which is to say it was absolutely horrid. It was cramped, right next to traffic, and with a lingering stench of battery acid. Technically it belonged to a 40 year old virgin by the name of Craig G. Astley, but he’d died of heartburn 2 days ago. Beelzebub was, as the mortals called it, ‘squatting’.

**Bored.**

_ Fair enough _

Beelzebub glances over Michael’s reply, reaching into the cupboard. They pulled out a bottle of hot sauce, uncapping it with their teeth.

_ So? _

Beelzebub squinted. They took a swig of the hot sauce.

**So what?**

_ Do you want to do something? _

**Like?**

Oh, Beelzebub could think of a  _ lot _ of things.

_ Not sure. _

Beelzebub scowled. Of course Michael had to go and be boring. Angels. They lacked creativity.

_ I’m thinking of shaving my head _

Scratch that thought.

**Isn’t that against dress code or**

**something?**

_ Heaven doesn’t have a dress code _

_...technically _

_ (I checked) _

**Do it then**

_ Can’t _

**Don’t be boring**

_ No I mean I can’t use any miracles _

_ And I do not trust humans with sharp _

_ things near my head. _

**Then don’t? Idk what to tell you**

_ Well, seeing as you owe me one _

_ for the Copier Room Incident… _

**I thought you didn’t trust people with**

**sharp things near your head**

_ Humans. _

_ I don’t trust humans _

**So you’re asking a demon?**

**Your logic is flawed**

_ Excuse you my logic is impeccable _

_ It’s not like I can ask an angel _

**Because you’re a bunch of stuck ups?**

_ Because that would require explaining… _

_ things _

**Contrary to popular belief, ‘vague and**

**ominous’ doesn’t equal intelligent**

_ I may or may not be on Earth right now _

Beelzebub nearly spit out their hot sauce. That was… unexpected to say the least. It was interesting though, very interesting and Beelzebub was terribly, terribly bored. Perhaps this angel was worth their time after all.

**Say no more**

Which was how Beelzebub found themself outside a very shitty motel, razor in hand. When Michael had sent them the address, they had expected some penthouse suite. Angels liked things squarish and orderly. They adored cleanliness and rooms with far too much space, expensive but not decadent. To them, Modern was the epitome of architecture and style. At least, that’s what Gabriel preferred.

This place was the exact opposite.

If Beelzebub suspected that was on purpose, they didn’t voice it. They kicked away a cigarette butt. It knocked into the shattered remains of a beer bottle. Knocking on the door (Room 008, Michael had texted), Beelzebub waited.

Michael opened the door.

Beelzebub was instantly struck by how  _ unangelic  _ Michael appeared. They didn’t seem quite demonic either. They looked, well, human. Michael’s hair was loose, falling about their shoulders. Gone was their blazer and poofy shirt. Gone too was every trace of gold from Michael’s skin. They were dressed in grey dress pants and a heaven-white binder. It was a strange outfit, but Beelzebub supposed that Michael only had the clothing they’d come to Earth with. Oddly, it suited them.

Michael leaned against the door frame. “Well that was quick.”

Ordinarily, Beelzebub was ‘fashionably late’ as the humans called it. As it was, they had nothing else to do. It felt contrived, flitting around the human realm in search of something to occupy their time until they were properly late enough. Especially when there was something far more interesting standing in front of them.

…

It is a common misconception that Heaven is Up and Hell is Down. The existence of an omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent Being does not change the fact that the Earth is a sphere. China’s Up is America’s Down, so the directional dichotomy of heaven and hell is not logically sound. They  _ are _ opposite each other, but this opposition is not relative to Earth or even Space. How this is possible, only She knows.

In place of existence commonly referred to as Down, Hastur woke up from his coma. The word coma is used here because, though demons could choose to take month long naps, Hastur had slipped on a pile of suspicious ooze and hit his head rather painfully.

Hastur immediately shot up. Falling asleep in Hell was a dangerous thing to do. It was considered weak and… Well, weakness was unacceptable for a demon. Wherever he was, he needed to leave.  _ Now _ .

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Blood rushed to Hastur’s head, pain swiftly making itself known. Hastur’s eyes swarmed as the room twisted around him. His limbs shook from dizziness.

“Told you so.” the girl chided. She was a human, a very particular human which Hastur had hoped he’d never meet.

“The hell did you-” He retched, bile fighting its way up his throat. He choked it down, grimacing at the taste. “What the  _ fuck  _ did you do to me.”

The girl made no move to answer him. She crossed her legs at the ankles and stared him down. Annoyance played clear on her face. She was only 19 when she died, a child really, but Hastur was no fool. Joan of Arc was a dangerous woman.

Hastur eyed the chessboard on the table. Dust was gathering over the pieces. It hadn’t been touched in centuries. Hastur wanted nothing more than to burn it.

Heat pooled beneath Hastur’s fingertips. It took less than a thought for them to catch ablaze. Hellfire danced on his palms. A flick of his wrist and Joan’s porcelain queen began to melt from the flames.

Joan blinked.

The fire  _ froze _ .

“Are you quite finished?” Joan held her fingers an inch away from a snap, as though daring Hastur to continue. “You should thank me, you know. I saved your life.”

Hastur snarled.

“Your corporation then. What difference does it make besides? It’s still a life debt.”

The idea of a life debt was absurd, especially to immortal beings at the edges of eldritch horror and glorious absolution. So of course, it was humans who came up with it. If a demon were to declare a life debt, the air might fizzle a bit before settling down. But Joan was  _ human _ . It may have been binding, it may not have been, but Joan believed it was and so there was power behind it.

“You didn’t save my life,” Hastur tried, as though that might undo Joan’s Declaration. Joan simply arched an eyebrow. “You  _ didn’t _ .”

“You blacked out right outside of Ashtoreth’s personal quarters.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” Joan repeated, amused. “Shit.”

Fear was a weakness, but  _ admitting  _ fear was worse. That was one of the foundational rules of Hell. It was punishable the way all thing in hell were punishable: hazing. Demons invented it, though humans certainly made use of it. Of course, human hazings contained slightly less physical and psychological torture.

Hastur could march right into a crowded meeting and declare he was afraid of Ashtoreth and nothing would happen. Not a single demon would threaten to pull off Hastur’s toenails one by one, or eviscerate his spleen. That was how scary she was.

Suddenly, Joan seemed a lot less threatening.

Hastur swallowed. “What do you want?”

Joan’s smile was impossibly sweet. She wrapped her hands around a cup of tea, three fingers through the handle. “I want you to keep your promise.”

“I never  _ promised  _ you anything.”

“Oh darling,” Hastur tried not to shudder. Joan called everyone that. “Your promise to  _ him _ .”

Hastur didn’t have to guess at who Joan was referring to. The list was one person long.

Ligur.


	5. The Nephilim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jophiel calls a council meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news! Or bad, but I'm trying to stay positive. Due to the Coronavirus my school shut down. So while I bunker down in quarantine, I'll have a lot more time to write. From here on, I'm planning much more regular updates. Also, as you may have noticed I combined some of the previous chapters. This is because I'm planning on posting chapters around 2000 words from here on, instead of my usual 1000ish.

The Council of Archangels filed into the amphitheater. Like the rest of heaven it had no doors, but it was relatively secluded by comparison. The semicircular shape of the theater created an illusion of three walls, granting a modicum of privacy to its inhabitants. Aside from the Council, the only other angels present were a Cherubim, busily filing paperwork at their desk, and the passing Seraphim. The council did not bother with dismissing the lone Cherubim. To do so would be a conflict of interest. Heaven, afterall, kept no secrets.

It was Jophiel who called the meeting, and so it was Jophiel who began it. Traditionally this would begin with a prepared speech and a reading of any Heavenly Codes which pertained to the given topic. However, this was Jophiel. ‘Traditional’ was not a word in her vocabulary.

She tossed the Game Boy onto a table which materialized into existence. Slamming both hands on the table, she leaned forward. “We’re in deep shit.”

Uriel facepalmed.

Jophiel paid no mind to Uriel’s agitation. As Uriel was always agitated, this wasn’t a particularly difficult task.

“You know what this is?” Response came in the form of the Cherubim’s quill scratching along a page. “This is a Game Boy. And  _ this… _ ”

Jophiel turned on the device. She pressed the menu, scrolling through the different options with a button shaped like a cross. The screen emitted a pale golden light. She pressed enter and Yoshi yelped his own name.

“ _ This _ is Walauwigi’s Castle. Well, used to be.”

Sandalphon raised his hand. “That’s a map.”

“I said  _ used  _ to be, Sandy. Pay attention.”

“But you never pay attention?”

Off to the side, Gabriel chuckled.

“Yeah, well.” Jophiel cleared her throat. She did not respond because she did not know how to.

Gabriel chose to insert himself into the conversation before petty bickering could give way to squalor. He did what he did best and redirected. “Jophiel, why exactly does this warrant a Council meeting?”

Jophiel’s head rushed up to meet his eyes. There was no power in her gaze. Unlike Gabriel, Jophiel did not rely on flashy displays of divine power. She had no need to, confident in her own ability to intimidate. Who else could have trained Azriel, Angel of Death? There was nothing which stoked human curiosity more than the unknown, and the unknown was a terrifying thing.

“I don’t know Gabriel, why don’t you tell me?”

Sensing weakness, Uriel leaned in close. Sandalphon squirmed in his chair.

Gabriel, for all his strength, faltered. “You were the one who called this meeting.”

Jophiel bared her teeth, sharp like a demon’s. They were a leftover remnant of Jophiel’s punk phase. Jophiel was actually quite embarrassed of that phase, looking back on it with that same grimace that she used to look back on the dinosaurs. (She hadn’t expected the humans to take it so seriously. It was an honest mistake, but Jophiel still shuddered to think of it). Gabriel had no way of knowing that, and pointed teeth were quite an intimidating thing for an angel to have.

“You summoned Divine Energy, a highly volatile substance, for the sake of uphending a Council meeting, an action which, according to Section 32 A of Archangel Proprietary within the Heavenly Codes, warrants at least an investigation if not a trial. You had neither authorization nor justifiable cause, and if Uriel’s tame reaction is any indication, this is not the first incident of this nature.”

The Council stirred to silence. No one had heard Jophiel speak so formally since Lucifer had tried to recruit her 6,0000 and a few odd years ago.

_ In other words _ , Jophiel wanted to say,  _ fuck you _ . She held her tongue.

Gabriel’s eyes darted to the Cherubim, who hadn’t been writing for a while now. Cherubim were terrible gossips. Everyone knew that.

“I don’t see what this has to do with your… human souvenir.”

“No, no.” Uriel grinned. “I’d like to see where this is going.”

Raphael watched warily from beside Uriel. If she allowed things to escalate, it could get messy. “I don’t-”

“You weren’t  _ here _ , Raphael.”

Raphael was quiet.

“Jophiel’s right. This isn’t the first time, is it dear brother?” Uriel didn’t wait for a response. “You see Gabriel has this little game he likes to play. On the surface he seems, well, an idiot. He’s smart though. Much smarter than he lets on.”

Gabriel frowned. “... Thank you?”

Oh, but Uriel was far from finished.

“Don’t you find it odd how Sandalphon ended up on the Council? He’s competent with a sword, sure, but he’s no Michael. What other qualifications does he actually have?”

Gabriel huffed, plucking his words from a list of statements the way one flicks lint off a treasured suit. His tone was calculatingly reassured. “Sandalphon arrived here through his own merit.”

“Sandalphon arrived here through on a referral.  _ Your  _ referral.” It would take more than pretty words to convince the headstrong voice which was Uriel. “Look at him. He follows you around like a lost puppy. He’s never voted against you either, not once. Does he even have a brain of his own?”

“Sandalphon can speak for himself,” Gabriel said.

“Oh can he now?”

“Well,  _ obviously _ . He has a…”

Uriel raised an eyebrow.

“... voice.” Gabriel finished lamely.

He looked to Sandalphon, expectant. Sandalphon opened his mouth to speak, but then Uriel's gaze turned urgent. Urging him to do what Sandalphon couldn’t tell. It was conflicting and confusing, and no one had ordered him to speak and no one had ordered him not to, but they  _ had  _ in a way. Sandalphon was intelligent enough to recognize an order, however thinly veiled it might be. Except that there were  _ two _ orders and they contradicted one another. No matter which order Sandalphon chose to follow. he’d be blatantly disrespecting another. Sandalphon’s head hurt. He disliked choices, they were dreadful little things. Sandalphon likened them to cockroaches. He couldn’t smite them no matter how hard he tried.

Sandalphon met Uriel’s eyes and regretted it. He turned to Gabriel instead, who smiled and nodded reassuringly.

If he had to follow any order, he’d rather it be Gabriel’s. Gabriel was nice to him. They made jokes together. Witty banter. Sandalphon didn’t exactly have that with the other archangels. Besides, Gabriel  _ had _ gotten him the job. It would be rather rude to disobey him.

“I…”

Sandalphon realized he didn’t know  _ what _ to say. Gabriel usually gave him a script for these sorts of things.

“He can talk. I mean, _ I  _ can. Talk, I mean. Er.”

Uriel laughed. It was cold. “Some pet you have.”

Gabriel didn’t deny it.

Sandalphon’s gut clenched. It was  _ wrong _ , all wrong. He’d made the right choice, he knew he made the right choice but he still got it wrong. Sandalphon didn’t  _ like _ choices. He tried to smite them, but they never died. They just became  _ wrong _ . Wrong and writhing with too many legs, but not attached, just  _ wrong _ . And they weren’t legs at all, they were wings and feathers, and there should have been six but now there were two and it looked so much like them. It looked like  _ them _ . It looked like-

Sandalphon hated choices.

He stood. Best to leave now, before someone had him make another decision. It wasn’t like he was needed. He’d just vote whatever Gabriel voted if they needed a tiebreaker. Sandalphon needed an excuse then, but that was easy enough.

“I’m going to look for Michael.”

The Council reeled back, all except for Jophiel who was busily hiding a smirk. Had they not realized Michael was missing?

“I wouldn’t bother,” Uriel waved her hand in dismissal. “They probably have a secret stash.”

Sandalphon left anyway. (It wasn’t a direct order.)

There were four archangels left in the amphitheater. Two glaring at each other, one who would have been glaring at herself if such a thing were possible to do, and one glaring at all of them. The latter was Jophiel, and she did not appreciate this turn of events. This was supposed to be  _ her _ meeting. She had spoken formally, and even prepared notes for the first time in a few centuries. This should have been her chance to prove herself, but they’d all  _ ruined _ it with their petty bickering.

But no matter. There were larger things at stake than Jophiel’s pride.

She reached into her pocket dimension and pulled out an old classroom projector. She jammed the Game Boy into a slot which hadn’t been there previously. It wasn’t plugged in but it worked anyway. Objects with divine energy had a tendency to do that. After all, Crowley hadn’t bought gas for his Bentley in over 70 years.

The map projected onto the wall behind them. It was a map of earth, blue and holographic. Swirling dots danced over top it, much like the auras Anathema saw. Some were golden and some were black, lit up in places where Heaven and Hell sent their respective field agents. Over top Sussex, a black and gold aura laced together in a web-like pattern. It marked the newly bought cottage of Crowley and Aziraphale, the Traitors. That wasn’t a particularly groundbreaking discovery. The two were inseparable after all.

No, what worried Jophiel was that one of those auras was  _ silver _ .

Jophiel cleared her throat. She’d let the others finish stewing in anger and self pity before she moved on. They all needed to focus if they were going to address this issue.

It was Raphael who looked up first. “That’s…” her voice quivered with shock.

“The mark of a Nephilim,” Jophiel supplied.

Gabriel tore his glare away from Uriel immediately, eyes wide with concern. Nephilim were hybrid creatures. Half-demon, half-angel, they had neither celestial nor infernal origins. Or perhaps they had both. As no one had bothered to turn in their reports, Heaven could only rely on the human recounting. In some stories, Nephilim were the children born of an angelic and demonic union. In other tales, they were the halfway Fallen, a race which clung so desperately to heaven and reached so longingly to hell that they disappeared from existence entirely.

Heaven could handle the Nephilim. They had before, when David met Goliath. There was no chance of the Nephilim surviving now that Heaven had discovered it. It was the panic which worried Jophiel. If a few rogue angels decided to take matters into their own hands there was nothing Jophiel could do to protect them. And then of course, there was Hell to worry about. If they managed to kill the Nephilim before Heaven could neutralize the situation Jophiel would never hear the end of it.

Jophiel expected Gabriel to appear concerned. She did not expect him to see him  _ terrified _ . He was shaking, fists curling into each other and eyes wider than they’d ever been before. There was a fury in his gaze. He had not tapped into Her divine energy, and yet Jophiel felt an otherworldly chill boiling her golden blood.

Really, it wasn’t  _ that _ big of a deal. Sure heaven might lose a few good angels, but it would all sort itself out in the end.

“It’s not all bad,” Jophiel tried - and failed - to reassure him. “We just need to make a plan of attack. I’m thinking of modeling it off of that one episode from Yu-Gi-Oh. Number… number…. well I can’t remember which but there was that guy who did the thing with the other guy, but then  _ another _ guy-”

“Where’s Michael.”

Jophiel’s words shuddered to a stop.

The Truth was Gabriel’s domain. It was his to manipulate, to veil, to redirect. If he wanted the truth, he did not need to pore through Earth’s Observation files or reach into back channels to get it. He simply reached out and  _ took _ it.

Jophiel clutched her throat, trying to ignore the burning in her lungs. She did not need to breath but it was not air she lacked. This was Gabriel’s doing.

“They’re on Earth.” The words tumbled from Jophiel’s throat.

_ “Where.” _

“I don’t-” Jophiel wheezed “I don’t know.”

Gabriel let go. He hadn’t touched Jophiel, hadn’t even moved from his chair but she could still feel the phantom of his claws at her throat. Her eyes watered.

Gabriel and Raphael exchanged a look. Raphael was crying -  _ why? _ For the life of her Jophiel could not understand it.

This whole Nephilim business was dangerous , sure. Jophiel could attest to it. It wasn’t a  _ funeral _ , Gabriel and Raphael were treating it like it was. Was there something Jophiel didn’t know?

Gabriel stood.

“ _ No _ .” Uriel warned. “You cannot leave in the middle of the council meeting. We will  _ not  _ have a repeat of yesterday.” Her eyes blazed. Uriel’s mind which steeled, not her fists. She prepared for a fight, a battle of wills.

Gabriel arched an eyebrow. “Then I motion to adjourn the meeting. Shall we vote?”

“Motion seconded,” Raphael wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. Golden tears faded into her skin.

Uriel frowned. “What about a plan? We need to move quickly if we want to neutralize the Nephilim.”

“Without Michael? We’ll have a half-baked plan at best.”

Uriel’s eyes hardened in a calculating gaze. She weighed the pros and cons and the logic came back sound. Reluctantly, she voiced her assent. “Very well.”

Everyone turned to Jophiel.

“Huh?” Jophiel blinked, bringing her mind back into focus. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

And with that, the Council was dismissed.


	6. Bombs and Big-Macs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Since when are you two friends?”  
> “This morning,” was Michael’s curt reply. At the same time Beelzebubub said “We’re not friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo I haven't updated in nine months. Sorry about that.

Michael caught Beelzebub’s arm. “Don’t eat that.”

Beelzebub huffed. “It’s called _sharing_.”

“It’s called _arsenic_ ,” Michael pried the french fry from Beelzebub’s fingers. “You’ll discorporate yourself.”

They shoved the fry in their mouth and downed the paper tin of ketchup like it was a shot. It was decidedly unangelic. Michael stuffed another handful of fries into their mouth. Did they know what chewing was? Humans invented it for a reason.

Beelebub stared pointedly at Michael’s fingers as they licked away the salt.

“Oh, I’m immune to most poisons.” Michael wiped their hands on a grimy fast-food napkin, their expression inexplicably fond. “Well not immune exactly. Hastur likes to try and discorporate me whenever he’s feeling particularly vindictive. You could say I’ve built up a tolerance for it.”

After Michael’s head was properly shaved, Beelzebub thought that would be the end of that. As it turned out, Michael was going through some profound shit. Beelzebub was just glad they’d opted for shaving their whole head instead of - Beelzebub shuddered at the thought - _bangs_.

It had taken every ounce of Beelzebub’s self-control not to indulge Michael when they started asking about tattoos. When they walked down to a little convenience store down the street, Beelzebub nearly caught on fire from sheer frustration. Michael had discovered hair dye.

Beelzebub hadn’t signed up to be the angel’s babysitter, so they brought Michael to McDonalds. They knew from experience that angels despised fast food. (Once they brought Gabriel here and he discorporated on the spot.) Hopefully the grease and chaos would be enough to scare Michael away from earth forever. There was just one teensy little problem with their plan.

Michael _loved_ it.

But that wasn’t the worst part. No, the worst part was that somewhere between 3 cheeseburgers and a mcflurry Michael became _chatty_.

“If I have to hear one more of Sandalphon’s puns I swear to all things good and holy-”

“Back up.” Beelzebub interrupted them. “Why the hell is there arsenic on your fries?”

Michael rolled their eyes. “Didn’t you hear me? _Hastur_. Anyway, get this-”

“Hastur’s still on discompassionate leave. Last I checked he hit his head and fell into a coma. Joan,” They didn’t comment on the way Michael bristled at Joan’s name. “sent me a memo. He’s still in hell.”

Joan and Michael had a complicated past, but then, Joan had a complicated past with everyone. Some things were better left unspoken.

Michael gestured behind them with their thumb. “He’s sitting in the booth behind us.”

Beelzebub squinted, leaning over the table so they could see better. There was nothing there.

Michael had definitely lost it. “Er…” Beelzebub searched for a way to break the news politely.

Michael slid over to the far end of the booth. They reached behind, fingers closing over thin air, and tugged.

The air shimmered and closed in on itself. There was a loud hissing, like the noise one makes when they scratch metal against metal. The air darkened in the form of a silhouette, a dark and desolate figure making himself known.

“Oy!” Hastur yelped. “Hands _off_.”

Beelzebub was impressed. There were very few demons who could shield themselves entirely from the Lord of the Flies. It shouldn’t have been possible at all, but then, Hastur was hell’s most talented lurker. Which was good because he was dreadful at everything else, and not in the hellish way. It was a lucky thing Ligur had been willing to do all his husband’s paperwork. Otherwise, Dagon would have gutted Hastur a thousand times over by now.

Hastur slid into the booth beside Michael. He reached over to steal one of Michael’s fries but they slapped his hand away. He grumbled, but let it be.

He frowned at Beelzebub and Michael. They were an odd pair, an angel and a demon on opposite sides of a garish yellow booth at McDonalds. That wasn’t uncommon in of itself, aside from the fact that neither was trying to kill the other. Were it any other angel, he might have questioned it further, but he’d worked with Michael for centuries. They could be annoying as all hell, but not overtly violent. If Michael tried to discorporate you, you probably deserved it. No, Hastur was far more confused that Beelzebub wasn’t trying to kill Michael.

“Since when are you two friends?”

“This morning,” was Michael’s curt reply. At the same time Beelzebubub said “We’re not friends.”

Hastur ignored Beelzebub’s protest and turned to Michael. “ _Why?_ ”

Beelzebub and Michael looked at each other as though sharing a silent thought. They both nodded.

“Gabriel’s a dick,” Beelzebub mourned. Michael nodded in solemn affirmation.

That was as good a reason as any. Hastur let it be.

It went quiet. Michael barely seemed to notice Hastur’s presence, but it felt like an intrusion to Beelzebub. They could talk easily with Michael, especially when they let Michael do all the talking. With Hastur there, the atmosphere at the table shifted. Beelzebub hardly knew anything about the demon. The only thing they could remember him being interested in was Ligur, and that topic was off limits. That only left small talk, and Beelzebub wasn’t keen on asking about the weather.

Michael had finished their fries. Without the distraction of food their fingers twisted around each other until they closed on the cheap fast food napkins. They stared unblinkingly at a tile on the floor, not seeming to realize the napkin was being shredded to bits beneath their nimble fingers. Hastur scowled at the mess.

Wordlessly, he slid the shredded napkin away from Michael. He unwrapped his scarf from around his neck and handed it to them. He offered no explanation and they didn’t ask for one. Michael quietly fidgeted with the soft fabric.

Beelzebub raised an eyebrow but neither seemed to register the oddness of the interaction. It was worse than the casual death threats. It was something else entirely and it made Beelzebub’s skin writhe.

They weren’t jealous, that was absurd. They were merely concerned- No, that was worse. Demons didn’t get concerned, especially for angel’s of all things.

Beelzebub was jealous.

The problem was, they didn’t know who or what they were jealous of. They certainly weren’t jealous of Hastur and Michael’s… alliance? Friendship? It sounded painful, all the attempts at discorporation. Yet it was almost _playful_ the way Michael talked about it. Michael wasn't the least bit put off by Hastur’s… everything. Hastur was a demon to the extreme, intense in everything he did.

Beelzebub turned up their nose. Hastur was particularly intense in ways of smells. He’d had his current corporation for a good 37 years by now, and he’d never bathed it once. The exponential rot of hell didn’t help.

The false-Antichrist, Warlock, had surmised it well. Hastur smelled like shit.

Beelzebub’s phone rang. They groaned when they saw the contact.

“What do you want, Gabriel?” Beelzebub pressed the phone to their ear. “And make it fast, I’m in the middle of something.”

Gabriel’s voice came through the phone. “What do you know about Divine energy?”

“I said make it quick.”

Gabriel paused. There was the telltale muffling on the line as Gabriel covered up the speaker. He was consulting with someone, though it was impossible to say who. After a minute or so, Gabriel raised the phone back up to his ear.

“There’s a Nephilim on earth. We missed one.”

…

Beelzebub had been gone for approximately 6.66 seconds when Michael turned to Hastur and said “Let’s blow something up.”

Hastur, ever the responsible demon, responded with “Let me get a McFlurry first.”

At this point, dear reader, you may be wondering why Michael decided to blow something up with Hastur of all demons. In truth, it had very little to do with Hastur and far more to do with poor impulse control. But then, you might be wondering why Hastur agreed to Michael’s request. In truth, it had very little to do with the innate desire within us all to see things blown to bits and everything to do with Michael. (Though the promise of destruction certainly didn’t hurt.)

Hastur could easily have summoned a ready-made bomb, but making one was far more entertaining. So, they headed down to the local convenience store. It was a quaint little place which sold eggs from the chickens down the road and fresh baked pies. It also sold guns over the counter, but that was neither here nor there.

Hastur flicked his eyes over the shelves, searching. He grabbed a pack of bubblegum and stuck it in his pocket. If Michael noticed, they didn’t let on.

While Hastur picked out (shoplifted) the necessary supplies for their bomb, Michael went up to the counter.

“Excuse me?”

A teenaged boy spun around in a swivel chair, thoroughly amused with himself. He didn’t hear them.

Michael said nothing, simply staring at the boy until the hairs on his neck stood up and his temperature lowered by two degrees. Michael’s stare was impossible to ignore. The boy squeaked involuntarily. He turned to face them.

“I uh,” he shook his head, confused by his own inability to form words “er.”

“Gunpowder please.”

Off to the side, Hastur snorted. As if a small town store would sell gunpowder over the counter. As if _any_ store would sell gunpowder over the counter.

The boy gestured to the left of him. On one of the register displays, the kind stores put candy or magazines in to dupe you into buying more at checkout, were six powder horns, 10 ounces each. “We’ve got a few barrels in the back if you’d like. Mostly only crazy Fred buys ‘em. He likes to make his own bullets.” He said the name casually, the way small towners do, assuming you already knew the name.

“...Right.” Michael picked up one of the horns. “How much for this?”

“Eight bucks.”

Michael waved their hand and nothing happened. Right. That wasn’t a thing they could do any more. They grabbed Hastur by the sleeve of his coat and pulled him away from the carving knives. He grumbled at the gesture.

Michael stuck out their hand, palm flat. Rolling his eyes, Hastur conjured up the money. It was fake of course, demon money always was.

They left the store and found an old abandoned parking lot. Hastur emptied his pockets.

“Did you have to steal all that?”

“Paid for this, didn’t I?” He waved the powder horn through the air in emphasis, glaring at Michael.

Hastur made quick work of the bomb. He was good at things like that, things with his hands. His greased up finger slid roughly over the makeshift thing as he poured a quarter of the powder into an emptied out tin of beans he’d stolen. Michael watched as he worked, leaning against an abandoned pickup. The rusted paint turned the back of their white binder reddish-brown.

He held the bomb out to Michael. “Done.”

“How does it work?”

Hastur grabbed Michael’s wrist, pulling them both away from the pickup. He pointed at the bed of the truck. “Toss it up, right there. The whole thing’ll go up in the most glorious flames.”

Hastur placed the bomb in Michael’s hands, folding their fingers overtop it. “You always did like fire.”

“Just throw the damn thing, wank wings.”

Michael tossed the bomb and the whole thing burst into glorious, hellish flames. The heat was warm and unpleasant, and they relished in that fact. In fact the whole day had been horrible by heaven’s standards. They let a demon near them with a razor. They helped another demon steal. They ate a Big-Mac. They ate a _Big-Mac_ and then they blew up a _car_ for no reason at all other than to watch the flames.

The fire was beautiful.

Michael laughed. They laughed and laughed and collapsed onto the broken pavement. The ground was hot, too hot, but they couldn’t bring themselves to care. What were they even thinking? They ran away from heaven. _Heaven._ All because t hey couldn’t handle dealing with Gabriel, who was only trying to help, because they drank themselves into a stupor, because of _fucking_ Ligur. The idiot Duke of Hell who went and got himself killed on information they gave him and-

Michael started to cry, loud ugly sobs that weren’t fitting at all for an Archangel. They hadn’t cried in millenia, not since Joan up and jumped off a balcony all because she couldn’t stand the thought of being an angel with them. This was worse though. This was so, so much worse because they killed him. Ligur died because of information they gave him and they had to live with that.

A jacket fell over their shoulders. Hastur’s hands lingered on their shoulders for a moment before he tucked them back into his pockets.

Michael rubbed at their eyes. “There’s a bomb in this thing too isn’t there,” they sniffed.

“It’s possible.”

Michael tore off the jacket and tossed it to the side. It exploded.

“I hate you."

“Hate you too.”


	7. There was Only One Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Michael is missing.”  
> Beelzebub peered up at him, careful to keep their face passive.  
> “I have to find them, and I-” he swallowed. “I need your help, Bee.”  
> That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t fair at all. Gabriel hadn’t called them that since, well, a very very long time ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey at least it didn't take me 9 months to update this time

The place where Beelzebub chose to meet Gabriel was grandiose. It was a restaurant, sat firmly on the 22nd floor of a city scraper, sleek and silver and surrounded by offices on all sides. Beelzebub had taken special care to select. They suspected, and had for a while now, that it wasn’t the filth which Gabriel hated; It was the food. Any food. So Beekzebub was convinced that for all the place resembled the white spaces of Heaven, Gabriel would despise the place. He wouldn’t be able to complain though as, for all appearances, Beelzebub’s selection would appear quite thoughtful in comparison to their previous venues of choice.

Gabriel was already seated when they arrived, disgust plainly written on his face. He turned up his nose at the other patrons, who quietly tapped away at spreadsheets next to half-eaten salads. The office next door, an accounting firm, was on its lunch break so the place swarmed with purple eye bags and the stench of quiet resignation.

They glowered at him as they approached, though not out of hatred. Glowering was simply the expression the muscles in their corporation’s face defaulted to holding. Gabriel smiled back at them, not at all out of kindness. Beelzebub had long since learned not to study the face, but the eyes of Gabriel’s corporation. His eyes shone darkly; He was enraged, incredibly so.

It was kind of hot.

“Good, you’re here.” Gabriel made no comment on Beelzebub’s tardiness, though he certainly noticed. “Sit.”

They took the seat across from him, calm and deliberate as they brought their feet up to rest on the pristine table. Gabriel took a file from the inside pocket of his perfectly ironed suit but did not push it towards them.

It was a delicate dance, this. It was far more dangerous than either let on, though both were addicted to the thrill of it. The beginning was innocuous enough, a string of officially sanctioned meetings in order to discuss the aftermath of the Apocalypse That Wasn’t. Even then, there had been danger, but after that first night of blistering heat everything became so much more intense.The two began working much more efficiently together after that, less screaming, less outright attacks, and overall less outward hostility. The reasoning behind that was simple: mutually assured destruction. It’s much easier to refrain from cutting another’s throat if you know they could destroy you with a single word to your superiors. Yes, the whistleblower would be destroyed as well when word got out, but both were just spiteful enough to risk it.

Suffice it to say, the violence had settled. Emotions on the other hand… well that was another matter entirely. Passion bubbled just beneath the surface, fire threatening to leap from their skin. It was electric.

“Zzo.” Beelzebub finally spoke.

“So?”

“You wanted to talk. Talk.”

Gabriel’s next words were slow and measured, as though he couldn’t quite find the right words. But that was absurd. Gabriel always knew what to say, it was getting him to shut up which was the hard part. “There’s a… Nephilim. On Earth.” 

“Yezz I’m aware. You told me.”

“Michael is missing.”

Beelzebub peered up at him, careful to keep their face passive.

“I have to find them, and I-” he swallowed. “I need your help, Bee.”

That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t fair at _all_ . Gabriel hadn’t called them that since, well, a very _very_ long time ago.

They knew where Michael was. They could tell him. Michael would be upset but it wasn’t their job to coddle an archangel, and with a Nephilim on the loose Michael really was best suited for the job. They had taken care of the Watchers, they could certainly handle a rogue Nephilim. Besides, If Michael took care of the problem then Hell wouldn’t have to send out any of their own forces. Organizing a group to send would only pile more paperwork onto Beelzebub’s desk, and after the whole… Crowley incident, convincing any demon to abandon their bruised ego and go topside would be even more of a hassle than usual. Really, it was in their best interest to lead Gabriel to Michael.

But.

 _But_ , if they could drag this out a bit, make Gabriel desperate, well. He would be in their debt and what a wonderful thing that would be.

“I’ll do zzzome digging. Let you know what I find.”

Gabriel’s always left his phone face up on the desk, like the imbecile he was, so Beelzebub could easily see when the entire screen lit up red. Gabriel bristled at the sight. “I should get going.”

“Yezzz. Quite.”

Someone had hit the panic button up in heaven. How interesting.

*******

“I think I hate him,” Michael announced.

Hastur’s scowl was less sharp than its usual. “Gabriel’s a wanker.”

“Oh definitely,” Michael laughed. It was short lived. “But I’m not talking about Gabriel.”

They were both as high as hell, stumbling through a drug-induced haze. Hastur had done this before, but to Michael it was new. Everything felt new.

They lied on their sides, facing each other. Hastur’s head was cushioned on his scarf. Michael propped their head up on their elbow to better see the demon.

“He _left_ us,” Michael placed one hand onto Hastur’s chest to emphasize their point. They let it lie there. After a moment of sullen silence they added “Bitch.”

“Bastard,” Hastur corrected.

Michael snorted. “Asshat.”

“Pervert.”

Hastur reached out. He touched their chest, just above where their heart would be if they were human.

“Puts a demon to shame.” Michael’s hand fisted in his shirt and they tugged. Hastur obliged, shifting closer. Their noses were an inch apart.

“He _is_ a demon wank-wings.”

“ _Was_.” The word came out as a whisper. Michael swallowed. “I think I love him.”

Hastur frowned. “Don’t you mean-“

“I love him. Present tense. And past and future and…”

Hastur nodded. He understood. He was the only person who possibly could.

His words were soft, so gentle it scared him. “I miss him.”

“Yeah,” Michael breathed. “Yeah me too.”

Michael had slept before, 6 centuries ago when they’d been temporarily assigned to the Prophetic Dream Department, but they’d never slept for the sake of sleeping. It felt safe to do so now. It shouldn’t have, but it did.

Michael curled their cheek into the crook of Hastur’s shoulder and closed their eyes.

*******

“Hastur.”

“Hmm.”

“I don’t actually hate you, you know.”

“I know.”

*******

“Hastur?”

“Go to sleep.”

*******

“Hey, Hastur.”

_“What.”_

“Do you remember the black plague? I think that was your best work. Hell of a honeymoon for you and Ligur. Had heaven scrambling to put things back right.”

“I was promoted for that.”

“Yeah, you were.”

“I loved the fourteenth century. It was _disgusting_.”

“I hated it.”

“Gave heaven a run for their money, didn’t I?”

“No. I mean- yes. But that’s not the reason. I was… jealous. Of you.”

“Of me?”

“You had _him_.”

“So did you.”

“Not really. He liked me well enough, sure. But he _loved_ you.”

“Michael…”

“Yeah?”

“Nevermind.”

*******

“I gave him the information. I told him to go after Crowley.”

“And I brought him there. Go to sleep.”

*******

“...Michael?”

“ ”

“You’re asleep. Good.”

*******

“He loved you, you know. We talked about it together, a proper conversation. I’m not the jealous type and he- well his eyes lit up when he talked about you and I loved him so much more for it. He just. He thought hell would win and he knew you could hold your own. He wanted to wait until after, it was safer that way. The plan was to win, then to find you. Lucifer would want to see you first of course but after that. We’re both dukes. We could have pulled some strings. That was what was supposed to happen.”

“We had backup plans. If heaven won he knew you wouldn’t let either of us die. I wasn’t so sure but he insisted. He said he knew something, but he couldn’t tell me until he told you. He said it wouldn’t be fair. We’re demons. We’re not supposed to be fair and I told him as much but he wouldn’t hear anything of it. He talked a lot of big game but he really was a softie, you know?”

“If anything went wrong, he made me promise to protect you. I don’t know from what. So. I’m here. Not really sure what I’m supposed to do now.”

“You’d better be asleep, wank wings because if you heard a single word of that I’m going to slit your goddamn throat.”

...

For the first time since Ligur’s death, Michael woke up without a headache.

They rubbed their eyes, pinched their nose, and they waited, but the headache never came. It was an odd feeling, coming to exactly where they remembered going to sleep. They felt light.

Michael reached for a miracle to fix their disheveled appearance but the proper miracle never came. It would take a while to get used to the miracle ban, but for now it was more of an annoyance than anything else. Worse things had happened.

“Morning, Wank Wings,” Hastur grumbled. His arm was tucked under their head, the rest of his limbs squashed between Michael and the motel blankets. “Mind getting off me now?”

“I do mind, yes.” Michael made no attempt to move.

Hastur sighed exaggeratedly. He could have shoved them off but he didn’t. “Hmmph.”

Hastur closed his eyes. Morning could wait a little while longer.


End file.
